DNA: Devil's Not an Android
by Indigo X
Summary: My first A.U.! When Dr. Paul found the cyborg in the junkyard, he thought he'd found himself a nice cybernetic bodyguard. But Mark II had his own plans for his life. (PG-13 for violence and language.)
1. Left for Scrap

D.N.A.

(Devil's Not an Android)

A severely A.U. 'fic by

Indigo X

Author Notes v. 1.0: This is my first crack at a true Alternate Universe 'fic. Seems like everybody else seems to go medieval on their AU's, so I decided to go sci-fi, so I can throw in my unabashed love of robots in. A LOT of people will have parts in this in one way or another, but mainly, this is my Undertaker 'fic. (I love Big Evil to death... no pun intended.)

'Takerbear, Paul Bearer, and everybody else's original selves belong to Vince and themselves. Rock on.

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Phase 1:

Left for Scrap

The cyborg, or what was left of it, had been laying amongst the scraps and unsalvageable parts of its brethren for God knows how long before Dr. Paul found it. While the body was mostly mangled beyond repair, the head and about 75% of the torso, plus the upper half of one arm, was still reparable. This was fortunate for the cyborg- after all, the main CPU and fuel circulation were contained in the head and torso, not to mention the battery unit and main engine. (As it stood, the engine needed work as it was partially mashed, but it wasn't a hopeless case for a skilled mechanic or robotics engineer.)

Its eyes were vivid emerald green, a startlingly bold color amongst the silver and black and brick-colored spots of rust that the rest of the junk heap seemed to be colored. They stared blankly ahead- whether its eyelid pistons were malfunctioning or whether its eyes were simply open when it was deactivated wasn't clear. Its hair was short but shaggy, and dark red with a highlight of gold here and there. It had a light, scruffy goatee as well, which brought to question its creator- many of the major manufacturers didn't bother with facial hair, and even most custom jobs didn't have it because realistic facial hair was a complex thing to add- at least, if the creator didn't want it to look fake. And among custom cyborg designers, realism was almost more important than efficiency or function. Aside from a few minute scraps of what appeared to be leather still clinging to its dented shoulders, the only thing the cyborg was wearing was a stained, tattered, and frayed blue bandanna, tied around its head just above its eyebrows.

When Dr. Paul found it, he'd been shuffling through the junk heap looking for a rare part- a ¾ tail piston for his robotic dog, whose tail had been severed quite nastily when the doctor had dropped a sawblade attachment for the battle sphere he was designing. The dog was obsolete, virtually an antique, and finding parts to repair it was always a chore. He never did find the piston... but he did find the cyborg.

The eyes, though vivid and attention grabbing, weren't the first thing that Dr. Paul noticed. Rather, he noticed the size of its shoulders. Though it was missing its body from the waist down, not to mention an arm and a half, Dr. Paul could tell by the shouder size, plus the proportions of the remaining torso, that the cyborg had been a behemoth- 7 feet at least. For all intents and purposes, he looked built in the image of some random heavy of some random Hyperbike gang. Dr. Paul rubbed his hands together and snickered. 

"Well, well, well, look what we've got here... a little work, my friend, and I'd never have to worry about lab raids again. Hades, you see, isn't probably going to last me much longer, and besides, he's far too outdated to be an efficient guard dog anymore. Now, let's see..."

Now, Dr. Paul was a brilliant cybernetics technician. What he wasn't was physically inclined- rather, he was probably fatter than is healthy for anyone, and had all the muscular ability of a ten year old girl. So when he tried to lift the cyborg, he got it about five inches off the ground before it slipped out of his hands, sending the rotund scientist tumbling about a foot down the scrap hill. In retrospect, it's probably lucky that he did so. For not far away from where the cyborg lay, there lay a bent and twisted arm of such size that it could only belong to the giant. The arm itself was beyond repair, but clenched in its fist was a long pole of solid, construction-grade titanium, one end of which bore a very nasty spike, and the other end bearing a beautiful, deadly-looking curved blade, a spot of tarnish staining the gleaming metal here and there but apparently without rust. Not only that, but the blade still seemed honed to such precision that it could sever most anything- bone, steel, flesh both organic and synthetic. 

Dr. Paul cackled in glee- not only was his new project piece huge, but it was armed as well. A fighting model, for only fighting models would bother to carry any weapon other than a basic MiniMine pistol for self defense. This cyborg had borne a scythe, and an elegantly efficient one at that. Dr. Paul rushed home as fast as he could, along with his Levi-van and a couple serverbots. The serverbots were merely drones, and no good for any sort of protection as they were built for labwork and not combat, but they were stronger than the scientist and managed to get the cyborg, as well as his scythe, into the hovering van.

"Ohhhh, yes. You'll see, you and I will get along just fine..."

Dr. Paul looked down at the cyborg, laying face down in the back of the van. The back of his neck bore no barcode, evidencing further that he was no factory model... but it did bear a simple legend. Four letters and a roman numeral.

"...Mark II."


	2. Silicon Blues

Phase 2:

Silicon Blues

It took Dr. Paul about three weeks of work to complete Mark II. It would have been satisfactory after two, but Dr. Paul wanted to make sure that his new machine was perfect, as new and powerful as it was when it was first made. The arms, lower torso, and legs were obtained easily enough, though he had to wait for limbs of the right size to be specially made. Most mechs, after all, were made to perfectly blend in with their human counterparts, and people who are 7 feet tall aren't exactly inconspicuous. A lot of time was spent on the reconstruction of Mark II's main engine- the damage had been more exstensive than he'd originally thought and, while still far from hopeless, had been a pain in the rear. Dr. Paul, as he worked, puzzled over the damage that it had... almost as if the limbs and waist hadn't been merely sliced off, but burned as well. Very curious, the scientist thought, curious indeed.

He clothed Mark II in blue jeans, large black leather boots that went up to his calves, black leather fingerless gloves, and a long black coat. He left its original blue bandanna. A leather belt was slung around his waist along with a holster containing a basic SD-138 MiniMine pistol, and Dr. Paul had even made it a shoulder strap/holster for its scythe, which he'd polished to shining immaculacy. 

When the work was finally done, Dr. Paul surveyed the end result and had to marvel at the wonder in realism before him. Laying on the worktable seemed to be not a machine at all, but nothing more than a very tall and muscular man, a Hyperbiker perhaps, in a deep sleep. Everything seemed to be in perfect order, so Dr. Paul carefully lifted Mark II's head up, opened a small panel hidden in the back of its neck just below the marking bearing its name, and pushed a small button beneath it before closing the panel and setting the mech's head back down. Immediately, the CPU clicked to life and began quickly activating all of Mark II's basic functions. Everything booted up very quickly, and Dr. Paul watched eagerly, rubbing his pudgy hands together.

The eyes, an even more brilliant and luminous deep green now, fluttered open, and with a soft grunt, Mark II sat up and tilted its head curiously at the man who had given it, so to speak, a second lease on life. Then it spoke, in a voice that was lightly gruff and liberally tinged with an accent, an accent that hinted at the southern regions of the United States of America. (Of course, the USA and all the other countries were long-gone. All that remained were the cities, the vast, endless urban jungles and wastelands...) 

"Hello. Who are you?"

Dr. Paul smiled widely. "Why, my name is Dr. Paul, and I'm the man who rebuilt you, dear boy. Although it wasn't an easy feat by any matter of means, I managed to do it quite well if I do say so myself... you can move alright, can't you? Get up and walk around a bit, see if everything works okay."

Mark II did, and sure enough, everything did seem to be in fine working order, every single joint and piston creating movement identical to a human's. Dr. Paul gave a pleased nod, and Mark sat back down. He stared thoughtfully into space, a lightly confused expression on his face. After a bit, he spoke again, looking to Dr. Paul with the same bewildered look.  
  
"Re-built? You mean you didn't build me?"

"No, of course I didn't! I found you in a junkyard, Mark. I was just about to ask you how in the world you got there, and how long ago. What happened to you?"

The cyborg sighed, and stared off a bit more. 

"I... I have no data, sir, other than basic default world knowledge, that of my name, and that of your name and your role in my being here. A memory scan indicates a few various remaining fragments of old data, however they are encrypted and I have no data on how to decrypt them."

"Hm. That's a pity, quite a pity. A terrible thing, to not know your own past... ah, well, I suppose it's not important now. I rebuilt you, after all, because I have a very important use for you. Namely, I've been having a real problem with... Mark II? What are you doing?"

While Dr. Paul had been speaking, something had caught Mark's eye... a partialy dismantled Hyperbike that lay against the far wall of the dim room, half-covered in a white dropcloth. He felt drawn to it... almost as if it were some sort of odd magnet. So, even though he knew he should be listening to what Dr. Paul was saying, he wandered over to where the mostly-disassembled bike lay. He knelt, reached his hand out slowly, and touched it...

__

Speed. He is moving very, very fast along a road through the city. The city is a blur, and he is a blur to the city. A young girl, whose arms are clinging tightly to him from behind, laughs and cries for him to go faster, faster...

"Mark II, pay attention to me when I talk to you! This is important!"

Mark blinks rapidly and looks up at the irate scientist, who eyes the cyborg irritably. But... that was a memory... a tiny one, but he's almost sure it was... and it had something to do with this bike...

"I'm sorry, sir. But... may I fix this Hyperbike up and get it to run, and have it to keep? You don't seem to be using it..."

"What, that old thing? I've been using it for parts, mainly... well, yes, I suppose you could... wait, how in blue blazes do you know how to fix a Hyperbike?"

The cyborg shrugged. "I don't know how I know, sir. I just know that I do."

"Hm. Well, anyway, that's irrelevant right now. What I was telling you is that your job around here will be to keep thieves away. They're always crawling about, the little wretches, trying to rob me blind and steal all my wonderful inventions. But with a titan like you guarding things..." Dr. Paul chuckled again. It was a decidedly oily sound, Mark decided. "...they won't so much as breathe on the door. Do this job well, Mark II, and other little chores I have you help with, and you may have that old junk-bike to fix."

Mark nodded. "What do I do?"

"Well, besides the scythe I found with you, I've given you a standard MiniMine pistol, which you'll find in the holster on your belt. It fires a round of pellets, each equipped with an explosive charge that detonates on contact. If you see anyone trying to break in, give them a warning first, and if they still do not disperse, feel free to use your scythe, pistol, or any other means to drive them off. It's only a pity the Laws of Robotics forbid you from killing them... well, if they're human. If they are of mechanical origins, it really doesn't matter... but it's all the same. You will be my personal instrument of terror and destruction, and with you around, no criminals will dare to come near." 

Dr. Paul laughed again, and Mark II recoiled slightly. "Sir... I will do so if you wish it, as I really have no other option at this time... but..." He shifted. "...why is it such a grave and terrible thing for me to destroy human life, but if I destroy the life of a fellow machine, it does not matter?"

"Well, that's simple. It's because you machines aren't really alive, as convincing as the illusion may be. You're objects, things. A human life is irreplaceable- another one of you can always be built. Any mech thief slinking around would probably be rouge anyway- that is, they have no owner to speak of, runaways or such- and those are supposed to be destroyed anyway. You do as I say because you're mine. I fixed you, I own you, and no matter how intelligent you are or alive you seem to be, you're still a machine and my property. It isn't a good thing for your kind to ask too many questions. Understand that, Mark II, and you'll get along in this world just fine. Now, enough talk for tonight- I'm going to bed. You keep watch for intruders, just like I told you. Goodnight!"

Mark watched Dr. Paul shuffle off to bed, a strong feeling of distaste zipping through his silicon mind. He truly hoped that Dr. Paul's opinions were his own, and not that of everyone in this world.

Sighing, he yanked the dropcloth completely off the Hyperbike, and quietly began tinkering with it by the hazy light of the moon that drifted through the window. He kept alert, listening for intruders, protecting the property of a man he owed his current existence to but did not like at all.


End file.
